


Obsession

by Bleed_Peroxide



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bleed_Peroxide/pseuds/Bleed_Peroxide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To run my fingers through the silk of her hair… oh, I would beckon Lucifer himself to take my soul for the price. I had long since abandoned my beloved faith and science... oh God, the passions of a man were never meant to be shackled by priestly vows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> Written and submitted to FF.net in 2009.
> 
> I posted a writing challenge of sorts on my LJ, where I listed all twenty-six letters of the alphabet. My friends would then write a word or phrase beginning with that letter as a prompt, followed by the fandom and pairing/character. My job? Write a drabble for it. My sister gave me "Obsession – Notre-Dame de Paris – Frollo/Esmeralda" as the prompt. Here's the result!

Lustrous strands of hair the color chocolate, shimmering like gold as they caught sunlight. Tiny feet carried her body with the grace of a cat and weightlessness of a hummingbird. Her dress spun and caught the wind, the whispering sounds of fabric floating in the wind adding a gentle timber to the delicate notes of a tambourine and drum-like patter of Djali's feet pattering on the pavement. Petal-pink lips that smiled, taunting me more than the musk of any courtesan. Oh, that smile could conquer empires, could shatter the iron will of even the most solitary man. With a glimpse of her perfect angles and the exquisite curve of her neck, a man was trapped in the coil of lust. To see her dance was to see the voluptuous daughters of Egypt, to hear her sing was to listen to a siren's song. She knew nothing of her power—she was a nymph unknowing of her power, ignorant of the curves that any woman would envy, or how her shapely breasts were an invitation to be held in a desperate man's palms. He could look, could fantasize, but Esmeralda was a veritable rose. One could inhale the gentle perfume of her skin, but one touch and man was left wounded. She was a pearl in the hands of another most undeserving.

To run my fingers through the silk of her hair… oh, I would beckon Lucifer himself to take my soul for the price. I had long since abandoned my beloved faith and science. Esmeralda was my Virgin Mary, my acid desire and longing the only prayer I knew anymore. With each sinuous twist of her waist, I pressed my burning skin against the cool walls of my tower, clutching at my chest as my heart beat an indelible tattoo.

God help me. The passions of a man were never meant to be shackled by priestly vows. My whole life I had been… secure in my position. I hesitate to say happy, for such a vague word meant little in the rapturous pleasure one only knew when immersed in learning. I had vainly believed I could somehow substitute fleshly pleasures for the intellectual contentment afforded to me in books and grimgoires, but with a single glance of the supple skin beneath her dress, I was destroyed.

Even now, as she slumbers peacefully in Notre-Dame's walls, I can only stare at her with something akin to hunger. My very viscera and bones quivered with pure  _need_ , like a drunk and his liquid vice. There's hardly enough moonlight to see where I'm treading, but somehow Luna saves precious few strands of light for her alone. God above, even in sleep she looked like the demon from my own Perdition. Even as I take a cautionary step back, my hands act of their own will and stretch towards her, reaching for the water of life to cure parched lust. Oh God, how I  _had_  to have her! Just to stand in the very room with her was a test of my willpower, as cleanly divided in half as I was. Even as the beast in me longed to ravage her right where she lay, the proper Parisian longed to win her with gentle words and gentle caresses. What I wouldn't give to caress that supple flesh.

Quasimodo, as taken with her as I am, provided the girl with blankets and the like, offering her his own bed so that she could slumber. I can't help but smile a bit ruefully at that—violent as the boy can be, he has the manners of any respectable Parisian. If nothing else, I trained him well in the subtle art of courtesy.

I quickly cast a glance around the cell, making sure to do nothing to arouse his anger—he would never dream of attacking me, I know this well. But with little moonlight afforded in the cell, he could easily mistake me for a common scoundrel and shatter my bones before I could utter a sound. Obsequious as he was, Quasimodo was far from defenseless… and judging from the care he'd taken with the girl, he would likely kill the man who tried to touch her without her consent.

I caught the outline of a seemingly formless shadow crouched in the corner of the room, making a sound akin to rolling a stone door from a cave. I could feel my lips curve into a smirk—it was Quasimodo snoring, deeply asleep and, due to his unfortunate deafness, oblivious to all around him. He would not hear me.

The beast roared in triumph.

I tip-toed to where she lay, taking painfully slow steps as to not make the boards on the floor creak, which they often had a case of doing. Glancing over my shoulder every now and then, I finally reached to where she lay, tranquil and innocent as a lamb. The smallest of smiles curved the corners of her mouth, and though no true words emerged from those faintly moving lips, the way her breaths ending with a sigh, sharpened with an S-sound, needed little inquiry. She dreamt of the damned soldier, her sun god, the lucky man who had no idea of his undeserved good fortune.

"Phoebus…" she whispered in her dreams, the name a veritable knife to my heart.

And before I even realized what I was doing, I found myself kneeling over her sleeping form, stealing the word from her lips, savoring them like a delicacy. Slightly saline, but as sweet as any sin. I dared not touch her, but instead laid shaking palms on the floor on either side of the girl. Ironic how I had long fantasized to even touch her, yet I could only stand to let my mouth touch hers for fear I would lose all reason right then.

Oh God, how easy You make it to go against Your law.

Even as I pressed my mouth hesitantly against hers, I could feel my iron vows dissolving in my breast, could feel a veritable evaporation of my soul even as tears of ineffable joy slipped down my cheeks. Even as the love burning in my chest threatened to kill me, to devour me alive like the inferno it was… I was happy. I had known pleasure, had tasted the indescribable sweetness of a woman's mouth that would haunt my darkest dreams for the rest of my life.

The slightest tendrils of regret began to squeeze my heart—now that I knew this exquisite thing called a  _kiss_ , I could not go about ignorant of its potency again. I would crave more of these touches, driven further into despair as I realized this craving was a solitary fulfillment. I would never again be able to touch her like this, never again feel those burning lips against mine. She reviled me, I knew. If I so much as touched her again, she would strike like a viper.

I held a trembling hand against my mouth, trying to forget the searing pleasure of those lips even as I knew it would remain seared into my skull. I had dived into my ocean… but I had no willpower to try and fight the waves that crashed above my head. Submitting, I let them wash over me like a baptismal fount.

_I let go so easily_  
 _On a night as warm as sin_  
 _Midnight swimmer, midnight sea_  
 _I will not come back again._

**Author's Note:**

> Verses is from "Your Love Will Kill Me", sung by Daniel Lavoie (from the Notre Dame de Paris 1997 musical).


End file.
